


Hands

by Airmid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airmid/pseuds/Airmid
Summary: Sometimes things go wrong. Sometimes it's a small blessing in disguise.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/John Winchester
Kudos: 23





	Hands

* * *

Blood is slithering across his shirt, staining the fabric in bright splotches, causing that sticky, uncomfortable sensation when it slides down between his jeans and skin. Dad is there when he blinks next. It seems like he moved so fast from across the room after that thing had thrown him. He can’t help but worry that it’s coming that dad’s distracted and he tries to raise up his head as dad’s pushing him back down, hand firm on his chest. His head lulls to the right like all the tension springs have snapped and he sees her, the many toothed mouth separated and bloody from the body with the claws that did this.

“Stay down, buddy,” dad’s saying, those hands pressing hard against him and the only thing he’s aware of is their heat and the feeling of being drained. “Just stay with me, okay?”

He wants to say he’s okay, that he’s not going anywhere but his throat just makes a clicking noise like it can’t push anything out so he grins. It’s all he’s got as his eyes want to close.

Just to blink, to rest for a minute he thinks as he hears dad’s voice far away and distant like he’s gone somewhere.

* * *

He starts, the pain is throbbing and he’s laid out on the backseat of the Impala. Dad glances back at him, something like relief there and he realizes they aren’t in that shitty house anymore, that they’re going somewhere. He’d wonder about how dad moved so fast if his side didn’t hurt so goddamn much.

“Hey, buddy, just stay still okay?”

He pushes his fingers into the bench seat he’s currently half comatose on, wanting to feel if it’s real. The vinyl, the smell of it pressed against his face of all the fights and naps and just plain living on it over the years. Dad is back to looking at the road, body ridged and Dean knows he had fucked up. He always did.

“I want you to list all the monsters we have killed in order, Dean.”

“Dad –“

“Now, son.”

He doesn’t want to argue as his fingers pluck at a seam on the seat. His body is screaming, wanting him to make a decision on whether to pass out or vomit. But he starts anyway, his father nodding along.

* * *

They’re back in the tacky no-tell motel room with its double beds that they had met up in early that day for this case and Dean wondered why they even bothered with appearances sometimes as dad’s looking over his side. It has been too damn long since he’d felt those hands on his skin, papery and rough and he catches himself trying not to lean into any touch, dad frowning.

“You’ll need a good line of stitches.”

Dad’s face is all carefully composed but Dean can see the worry in those eyes that keep looking at him as the field kit is fetched and a bottle is shoved into his hands with a couple of pills. Dutifully, he pops the pills and they flow down with a mouthful of whiskey.

What unnerves him is dad taking the bottle and chugging a good drink himself before handing it back.

“Kind of want my stitches to be even here.”

“Goddamn it, Dean,” is the only response he gets, muttered at that.

Dean doesn’t like this, not one bit. Dad looks so haggard, worn down, beat down and he wonders just how bad he had looked with the blood splashed across his shirt. Didn’t help he had worn white, probably made it look worse than it seemed. The wound was still oozing, skin not cooperating on the whole getting together without forceful thread help and he let dad lay him down, a pillow under his good side, not looking forward to the needle going in and out.

A part of him wants to insist he is still here, is still in better shape than he was an hour ago. He is focused, alert and damn, did the pain really starting to settle in help with that. The look dad’s wearing is making him unsettled and nervous as a pad with disinfectant is rubbed all over and he winces, trying to swallow back a smart ass comment.

“Sorry,” he finally offers, not sure what to say, not sure what he did wrong, but it has to be something.

Dad pauses in his stitching, looking at him but Dean can’t look over, taking another pull from the bottle, managing not to make a mess with the weird angle. The needle starts up again lacing his skin together a few seconds later.

* * *

He’s been fed, watered, managed to go take a piss and wash himself a bit and now he’s sitting back on the bed with a thin sheet over his lap. Every position is uncomfortable, doesn’t matter how many pillows he has behind him, it just aches to be conscious right now even with the pain meds making him groggy.

Dad’s sitting on the edge of the bed, looking him over, changed already into underwear and tee looking even worse, eyes sunken, face drawn with dark under the eyes like he’s been punched like he’s just been drug around for years far past his prime. It’s not right him looking like that and Dean’s not sure what to make of it before dad gets up and goes to the bathroom. The door clicks closed and Dean leans his head back not knowing what to say other than he’s pretty sure he’s sleeping alone tonight. Over and over again in his mind, he tries to replay what happened but he can’t land on the spot where he’s been hit, can’t figure out what step he missed in that little missing chunk of time between fine and screaming pain so he doesn’t miss it again.

The toilet flushes and dad’s coming back out, pausing to switch off the light between the beds, the light in the bathroom on with the door half-closed so Dean can see him in the shadows. He knows dad’s looking over at him before turning and he can’t take it.

“What did I do?”

“What?”

“What the hell did I do wrong?”

He sounds like Sam, petulant, and he loathes himself because that’s not how he’s supposed to sound. He’s supposed to be sure, supposed to know what he’s doing so he doesn’t die and nights like this don’t happen.

“Nothing, Dean. Just went bad.”

Dean doesn’t like that answer but it may be the truth because he can’t see a spot in there that has the big sign that says he almost died to his stupidity right here in this second. Dad’s on the bed again, hand on his thigh and it bleeds warm through the thin cotton sheet. On reflex, Dean brushes it with his own palm, getting it to slide up more, wanting to ask why if he didn’t do anything wrong dad’s been in such a mood.

That hand is over him now, resting on how hard he is and it takes everything to not just push up and rut. He knows what dad’s thinking about, has seen it on his face when there’s more light and it makes him want to shake the old man. Mom’s been dead a good twenty years, there isn’t anything left to ask an opinion from but he isn’t that cruel.

“Not like I wasn’t a grown-ass man when we started this,” he says instead, feeling those fingers flex on him, more familiar now.

“And how long before that were you thinking about it?”

There’s a hunger in that voice because they’ve done this before and dad likes the answer, needs the answer because it’s the truth. Dad knew about all the nice pretty girls he’s brought home and banged, knew about him picking up women and he knows dad gets off on this.

“A few years, wanted you to just watch me jerk myself off.”

Hands hard and firm are pressed against him, and then that mouth is there, needy and full of lust and there’s nothing pretty or controlled here. He pushes against dad, feels how hard he is, the wet spot where he’s been leaking through, hidden by his longer tee. Then the angle’s awkward to touch anything on him as dad’s working on getting his underwear off, the last piece of clothing he still has on and he raises his hips just enough to free them without setting off his side.

Dad’s mouth is on him, all over him and he knows where this is going.

“Probably a little gross –“ is all he gets out before dad just swallows his cock and his hips buck because he can’t fucking help it, seeing that in the dim light spilling from the bathroom.

Sliding back off for a moment, dad says, “Keep still or we stop.”

“Yes, sir.”

He wills himself to not move, hand in that hair as dad works, tongue and lips and just warm like he hasn’t felt in so long. His own hands and fingers a poor substitute for this, especially seeing this and he opens his legs more, knees bent, not caring if his side’s comfortable.

“Dad,” he gets out and dad knows, feels the twitch and takes it all, Dean spilling into his mouth and down his throat and somehow Dean doesn’t just yell at how good it all it, staying still like a good boy.

He’s too banged up to do a lot of movement, no matter how much he’s dying to get dad into him but he can return the favor and gets him straddling his lap on his knees, hand against the wall. There’s a sharp intact of breath above him as Dean shows him what he wants and he fists the base of dad’s cock, licking the tip before sliding it in. Looking up he can see dad looking down, that awestruck look he sometimes gets when they do this, watching, breathy sounds and Dean knows he’s pleased which pleases him. This isn’t going to last long, dad’s too wound up from everything and he slides a hand on his hip, squeezing as that he knows before dad spills out. He’s not as good at catching but he’s doing better, maybe if dad stayed around longer he’d get more practice.

It’s also the only time he wishes one of them was a woman. He loves dad’s cock, loves his body, but the taste, he misses women in these few seconds.

Dad slides free, trembling a little, and the fingers that had been in his hair are ghosting across his cheek, his lips, and he kisses them, smiling a little in the faint light before dad pushes all the way back.

It takes a minute but dad comes back, handing him a glass with mouth wash which he swirls around to get rid of the taste as waking up with that shit in the back of the throat is nasty. Dad’s got a warm wet washcloth and gently cleans him a little, makes him feel a little less gross and he spits the stuff back in the glass, dad taking it away. The light snaps off and he wonders if dad will just pull the blanket up and go to the other bed before the mattress sinks down a little, his eyes caught up in the now darker room.

“Need anything, buddy?”

“Nah, just can’t get comfortable.”

“Let’s try something. Go back to how you were when I put them in.”

Carefully, dad helps him onto his side with a pillow under the good side.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He can’t say but wants to that it’s not just the change in position but the fact that dad’s up against his back, naked, with a leg between his own. He lets his eyes close a bit, trying to ride the sleepiness wave. The pain stuff dad gave him must be the good shit because he swears he’s hallucinating dad kissing his hair as he dozes a little.

* * *

It’s dark and dad’s pressed up like a thin line behind him, arm carefully around him, mind that wounded side and stitches, hiding dad’s too pale face last time they had had the lights on. Dean wants to press back, feel all the heat and hair and just dad against his flesh and knows it’s real.

He worries he’ll be alone soon.

The drugs are making him sleepy and not sleepy and his mind keeps drifting to that terrible night a couple of years ago when Sammy was almost fifteen and the call way too close. Side road doctor, he thought dad might have prayed, and Sam was always so damn stubborn, even more so at that age because he felt he could do anything, take on everything and that whole mortality thing was for other people not named Sam.

It had been all the stress and the sleepless night followed by pacing and worry, wondering if they should go to a real hospital and realizing that they were so far out in nowhere that a real hospital wasn’t even within a couple of hours. Sam’s breathing and color had evened out, body less tense and Dean had felt so damn relieved when dad sent him back to the room to go get some rest. Everything had been vibrating in him and he couldn’t even sit. He had shoved his hand down his pants, then opened them, leaning against the rickety dresser trying to get relief, any kind of relief from nerves that felt frayed and raw all through him.

Dad had been in the doorway and Dean almost came just by being seen. He had expected some sort of half-assed apology, trying to think of some excuse as dad closed the door, still watching. He had been expecting just being ignored even though he couldn’t get his hand to stop moving but dad had come over, pressed up behind him. A hand on his cock and it had felt like his whole life was waiting to exhale just by feeling it. It didn’t take long, he was coming into that rough hand, chanting ‘dad, dad, dad’, that shocked face next to his own before dad pressed his face into his shoulder.

They didn’t often do things with the lights on after that.

Sam had had the flu a few months later, all sick and whiney and dad had taken him out with some beers as Sam slept off the latest dose of flu meds and hopefully woke up being less of a brat. It had been a beautiful day, sun out, good temp, they parked off some back road by a small set of trees casting shade on them, dad giving him a beer. It felt good, leaning up against the car, free of Sam for a few and the kid should be fine in the daylight on his own for a little bit, too drugged up to go stumbling off into trouble. Dad had joked about him not being able to run off on them – if only they had known.

“We need to stop this.” Dad hadn’t been looking at him when he said those words, staring off into the field that stretched out beyond the trees.

Dean had rubbed the bottle between his palms. “So, you drive me out into nowhere with a six-pack when we’ve got time to kill to tell me we shouldn’t be screwing around.”

Dad had just sighed, shoulder slumping and Dean laughed a little, pushing himself off the hood, going to stand between dad’s legs, the old man struggling not to look at him. Dean already knew the look that would be in those eyes when dad finally got around to tilting his head up.

“Anyone tell you you’ve got a mouth on you?”

“Learned from the best,” he had answered, a hand on his hip dragging him closer and he was already hard by the time he felt dad’s beard on his chin, the salty taste of beer kissed lips against his own before dad had tugged him harder, that mouth biting his neck as dad stood up more.

Everything in him had just needed this, dying for it as they were stumbling, clutching and grabbing, beer bottles balanced somewhere forgotten as dad got the back door open and Dean looked forward to it being light, to being able to see everything and dad was still here –

“Dean?”

He is startled a little in his non-sleep dozy state, wondering what he has been doing while going down memory lane in his mind when there are fingers on his cheeks.

Shit.

“Fine,” he murmurs but dad is already getting out of bed and he curses himself silently.

Can’t keep it in, could never always keep it all in. Probably how he lost Sam, gone and never coming back, not in the way they had been. If Sam ever sees this, catches wind of it, he’ll never see his brother again. He clears his throat, mindful not to move with the careful balance he has to keep himself out of as much pain as possible right now even as he feels all that skin tightening around the stitches ripening into bruises.

All he’d had was Sam and dad and Sam is gone and he is chasing the one last thing he has in this whole damn world out the door.

Dad is back and it takes him a moment to realize he had gone around the bed to not jostle him too much. Dean reaches out before he can stop himself because he’s just so damn relieved as dad’s sliding in under the covers onto his side. Dean buries his head against that chest, feeling the hair he has teased about being in all the weird places, smelling the soap dad likes to use and the sweat on his skin. Just barely he manages to not just cling and instead drapes his arm around dad’s middle, pressing his hand against his back.

They’re quiet, just them. No real other sounds like ticking clocks, the road not used a lot and traffic light at this hour, well, he assumes it is late given it was so dark.

“What were you thinking about?”

“Your amazing amount of body hair,” he says, getting a smack across the shoulders. He thinks about lying, thinks about trying the truth. “Nothing.”

“Have to leave soon.”

Dad’s voice has no right to sound so soft, like regret, and Dean’s not sure what he’s regretting, the leaving or even being in bed to begin with.

 _I shouldn’t have to be bleeding out in the backseat to get you here,_ he wants to say but doesn’t. He wants to point out that they need each other to watch each other’s back, stitch up wounds properly, make sure one isn’t out dying in some godforsaken place unnoticed for days.

Everything he wants is just right here and he still doesn’t understand that with no Sam why they can’t stay together. Sam is off proving what a big boy he is at his Ivy League and too busy to need them so why can’t they drive in the Impala and kill shit and sometimes when they had a few extra hours screw in the back? That’s what he wants to know and a deep part of him, something that is more honest than most of himself is, knew that it is because it terrifies dad. That thought, that they could be this and at least keep it somewhat hidden and make this normal, that is more haunting to dad than any yellow-eyed demon and there is a bitter taste in his throat.

“Stay till I can drive.”

“Dean –“

“Can’t do crap now, can barely wobble to go take a piss. Food’s going to be a bitch.”

There’s a long breath, something exasperated and fond and Dean knows he made his points fairly. Not one of them is false and dad knows it, knows he can’t just be packed up on this one and out the door at dawn.

“Fine, till you can drive.”

The tension he wasn’t even aware of flows out of his body at those words and he is surprised when dad holds him a little tighter, half hard. The drugs are making it impossible for him to get there but this is fine, just like this. Sure, dad would be pissy in the morning about being more caged for a few days, stale breath and words just like Sam got and the two never seem to see just how alike they are in ways Dean could never hope to touch. He’d bitch and moan, they’d argue and they’d fuck and they’d eat and it’s only a few days but it’s more than he’d had five minutes ago and he’ll take what he can get.

Somedays he worries what would happen if they ever get to other side if dad would just wither away once the demon is dealt with and the whole driving point of his entire existence ceased to be a thing in a blink. It worries him in ways that have no name, not that he thinks most days he is going to really live to see thirty. They’d be dead and Sam will have his life and as long as they did what they set out to do it will be fine.

Sam’s gone and he only had a few days until he’s on his own but it’s enough, the edge finally off as he drifts a bit closer to sleep.


End file.
